


The Kiss

by irrevocably-johnlocked (AurielleDawn)



Series: First Times [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M, Still working out their relationship, minor infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 16:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurielleDawn/pseuds/irrevocably-johnlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is not Sherlock's damsel in distress.  But he might have to stay behind anyway.</p><p>***</p><p>“You are such a bastard!” I whisper fervently.  “I know,” he responds, quietly.  Then I pull away enough to look at him, and his hair is tousled, eyes soft, looking at me like I’m something precious.  </p><p>“And I fucking love you,” I finish, softly.  And he smiles for me, the real one that crinkles his eyes and makes them sparkle like the sun on the ocean.  “I know,” he says, and I smile then as well.  I can’t not smile at him when he looks like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Note that some time has passed - days, weeks - since the last installment of this story. John's had just a bit of time to ruminate on the newfound knowledge of their mutual feelings.
> 
> Further note that I'm changing my pseud on my Johnlock fic so tumblr followers can find me.

“John, I need you to stay here.” 

“What?” I look at him, my voice deathly quiet. “You must be joking.” 

We’re standing in one of Mycroft’s lairs, like the bat cave, but more posh. Less black vinyl and more cherry wood. Mycroft is sitting across the room, monitoring his laptop and talking into an earpiece, making sure all the pawns are in place. He’s resolutely ignoring us, which is fine by me. 

“I need you to do this for me, John. Please.” Sherlock’s voice is calm, and he’s very controlled, and I desperately want to punch him in his perfect mouth. 

I stalk over to him, movements stiff with anger, and stick my finger in his face. “If you think I’m going to let you go out alone to face that _maniac_ —“

“I will hardly be alone, John.” He sounds very reasonable, and it makes me angrier. “Mycroft has the entire area swarming with agents.” 

I start to respond, and he interrupts. “Your presence will be a distraction. I cannot keep the upper hand with him if I am worried about you being harmed.” 

I bristle at this, practically spitting with rage. “So I’m a _distraction_ now? Well, that’s just _lovely_. Never mind that I’ve saved your life god knows how many times—“

“Twenty-seven,” he inserts, quietly. And that takes a bit of the edge off my anger. I hadn’t realized he was keeping count. 

I look at him a moment, searching his face. “So now you’re running off to do the dirty work and leaving me behind.” 

One side of his mouth lifts minutely. “I’ve always run off and left you behind when it suited me, John. I am attempting to stop lying to you about it.” 

I sigh and shake my head. “I’m not your damsel in distress, Sherlock. I don’t need to be protected.”

He looks at me a moment, face unreadable. “No, you are not a damsel in distress,” he says quietly. “You are my partner and a soldier and the best man I know under pressure. You are the first and only man I would want at my back in any fight.” He pauses for a moment, and I let out a breath around the ache in my chest, as he searches my eyes. “But this is not your kind of fight, John. I need my wits about me to confront Moriarty. This is not about _your_ deficiencies but about _mine_.” He looks away from me for a moment and when he turns back, his eyes are nearly black. “The first time I faced Moriarty, he had explosives strapped to your chest. The last time I faced him, he had you in the sights of a sniper. He knows you’re my pressure point, John. He knows that hurting you will hurt me.” He swallows and moves in closer, “And he knows how to exploit my fear for you. I am not… _strong_ enough to do this if I don’t know you’re safe.” 

I stare at him helplessly for a moment and then look across the room. “Mycroft.” I’m expecting him to tell Sherlock to stop being stupid, that of course he should take me. Mycroft is nothing if not pragmatic about resources. 

He looks like he desperately doesn’t want to get involved (or is possibly very bored, it can be hard to tell). But he heaves a little sigh and says, “I’m afraid my dear brother is right, Doctor Watson. In this instance, I fear your presence would be… counterproductive.” I glare at him, and he returns the look mildly. 

I turn back to Sherlock, starting to feel real panic that he might do this without me. “I can’t let you do this. I can’t send you out there alone, without me to watch your back.” I hear a snapping sound and glance around to see Mycroft picking up his laptop and standing. 

“I’ll go make the final preparations,” he says, with a small, unconvincing smile. “You have five minutes, brother dear.” Sherlock nods in acknowledgement, and we both stand silently until the door clicks quietly shut.

I’ve finally registered this panic I’m feeling, finally tied it to its source. When Sherlock turns back to me, I reach up and put my hand on the back of his neck, pulling him down so his forehead is resting against mine. I close my eyes and just breathe for a few seconds, his breath whispering across my face. His hand comes up to rest against my cheek. We’ve never touched like this before, and I don’t want to move, don’t want to break it. But we haven’t got much time. 

“Sherlock,” I say quietly, struggling to keep my voice even. “The last time you confronted Moriarty, you died. You threw yourself off a building, and you were dead for two years.” My voice cracks here, and I take a deep breath before continuing. “And I nearly died with you. I could not go through that again.” 

Suddenly his hands are on either side of my face, thumbs rubbing lightly across my cheeks. He nuzzles against me, still just our foreheads and noses touching, and it breaks my heart. I tangle my hand in his hair and raise the other to fist in the lapel of his suit jacket. 

“John,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I can never make it up to you, what I’ve put you through. But I didn’t die.” He’s runs a hand up the nape of my neck, thumb along my jaw. “Everything went according to plan. Mycroft kept me safe. We won.” 

And I know he’s right, that I have to let him go. And I hate it. Dear god, I hate it. 

“You are such a bastard!” I whisper fervently. “I know,” he responds, quietly. Then I pull away enough to look at him, and his hair is tousled, eyes soft, looking at me like I’m something precious. 

“And I fucking love you,” I finish, softly. And he smiles for me, the real one that crinkles his eyes and makes them sparkle like the sun on the ocean. “I know,” he says, and I smile then as well. I can’t not smile at him when he looks like that.

And he’s ready to pull away then. I can see it. Content to walk away and leave it at that. Because I’m the one who’s not free, and he won’t ask for anything. And my hand tightens in his hair, because I don’t want to let him go. Not like this. Not when he’s walking out to face Moriarty.

I pull him down until my lips are brushing his, just barely, a whisper of touch. He’s stopped breathing, frozen, and I smile a bit. I tilt my head, rubbing my mouth more firmly against his and licking lightly. He makes a low sound in his throat and opens for me, pulling me closer, one arm going around my waist. I unfist my hand from his jacket to wrap my arm around his neck, and I drink him in. And I hadn’t meant for this, but he tastes like fire with this sweet, innocent edge, and I want to see what else we can do. I tease him with my tongue and am rewarded with more noises, so I nip at him lightly, and he changes the angle, delving into me. I’ve completely lost myself, forgotten where we are, forgotten everything but the taste of him and the slow burn building between us. 

But then a knock at the door brings us back, and we break apart, panting, staring at one another. And that doesn’t make it any less obvious what we’ve been doing when Mycroft opens the door. He looks between us, expressionless, and says, “It’s time.” Sherlock is still staring at me like I’m some fascinating and unexpected new puzzle that has suddenly flipped on his dormant sex drive. And I suddenly realize that might have been his first real snog, and _Oh, bloody hell_. I shake my head a little and put a hand on his chest, pushing lightly. “Go save the world.” 

He nods and swallows, composing himself. He retrieves his coat and his scarf, and by the time he’s got them on, he’s Sherlock Holmes again, all cool composure, only a slight flush to give him away. He glances at me once over his shoulder, and then he’s gone. I stare after him for a moment and then turn to see Mycroft watching me. I narrow my eyes at him, bracing for a snarky comment. Instead, he just studies me and says, “I know it doesn’t always seem so, Doctor Watson, but you are not the only one who loves my baby brother.” We look at one another a moment longer, and Mycroft inclines his head slightly. “I will see him safely home.”

“Yes. You will,” I say firmly, motioning to the door. Then I follow Mycroft out to the Command Center, to watch him play puppet master with Sherlock’s life.


End file.
